Pretty Things
by SaturnXK
Summary: Jack is a model who's more plastic than human. Elsa is a makeup artist who brushes over his flaws. They fall in love somewhere between Paris and Tokyo, between vanity mirrors and backstage Gucci shows, and when Jack is throwing up blood and his humanity, Elsa is there to tell him that love is far warmer than the glitter and glam of bright city lights. – Jack/Elsa. model!au.


image from tumblr (can't find original source).

because i can see jack as a model, and there are no other model!au fics around here so i was like why not?

**notes:** no one dies. cameos of other disney princesses.

**warning:** eating disorders and stuff. probably very exaggerated spin on the modelling life. very very very obscure hint of sexytimes.

**word count:** 5800~6200

* * *

Elsa doesn't know which city it was where they met, only remembers Toothiana lashing out at her manager for giving her a glass of water with not enough ice cubes in it and knocking it back in his face. All cities are the same, really. Sparkling lights and high-class displays, with enough poison in the atmosphere to murder the lungs with every breath.

The first thing Jackson Frost ever said to her was, "Please hurry the fuck up. You're not getting paid to stand around all day."

"Of course," Elsa murmurs back, and she dips an angle brush into a pot of auburn powder, ignoring the shatters of glass behind her.

Today's fashion show is all about the gold and the silver, about the rich and the wealthy. It's something about the elite of the elite, the cream of the crop. It's to allude to the fact that everything about the show is only for those who can afford it, to suck up to the audience and scatter the money.

"Idiots, all of them," Jack mutters, more to himself than to Elsa. She continues dabbing his left eyelid with smoky black, blends it into pale purple. It juxtaposes nicely with the vehement metallic of his blazer. When Elsa leans back to check her work, Jack opens his eyes and stares straight through her, burns a hole into the mirror at her back. "The clothes only look appealing because we're wearing them; take them off of us and they're nothing but fancily stitched rags."

Elsa isn't sure what to say to that, so she just continues to sweep along his forehead, leaving behind glimmered bronze.

She watches him later on, when he's swaggering down the runway with chin held high and blue gaze glowering. He doesn't even look real, his features so perfectly aligned and symmetrical, and she notes absentmindedly that if a mannequin were put in his place, there wouldn't be any noticeable difference at all.

Elsa doesn't remember the city where they met, but his name is seared into her mind, Times New Roman font stark and clear.

"Jackson," a staff calls. "Jackson Frost, you're up for the last walk."

* * *

Backstage is a flurry of coloured silks and plumes of vibrant dusts. It's two hours before the opening of the Paris Spring-Summer Fashion Week, and Jack, their top model, has gone missing right before his fitting.

Elsa doesn't say anything even though she has a vague inkling of where he might be, and simply manages Rapunzel, who's the most popular model after Jack. The woman just sits there, a slight crease between her harshly defined eyebrows, and watches her reflection distort as Elsa smoothes more and more makeup on her, twisting her flesh and deforming her bones, until she's no longer human, but a breathing skeleton with Gucci draped across her frame.

"Ow," Rapunzel hisses, grabbing Elsa's wrists when she presses just a little too hard with her brush as she shades yellow under the model's eyes. "Watch it, or you're losing your job."

Elsa apologizes, but Rapunzel is already settling back into her chair. She releases her grip, and her fingers are so thin that Elsa barely feels them at all.

"Move it," a throaty voice commands, and both Elsa and Rapunzel glance up to see Jack towering over them, lips pressed so tightly together that Elsa is surprised that his fragile jaws haven't cracked apart yet. "I need my face done."

"Wait your turn, Jack," Rapunzel snaps. "I was here first."

"I was busy," Jack says, voice evening out. "I'm walking first, I need my makeup artist."

"There are others," Rapunzel says, and Elsa gives up trying to smear on the dark lipstick. She just drops her hands and waits for the two of them to finish arguing.

"She–" Jack jerks her head towards Elsa "–is most qualified. I'm not going to let some piss-poor rookie paint me like a fucking jelly bean for a Paris show."

"I'm almost finished," Elsa interjects quietly, "Rapunzel will take only two more minutes."

Jack stands there and waits with his arms crossed, and when Elsa completes her work, Rapunzel flounces up without looking her way and glares at the man, stepping closer.

"You might want to treat me better," Rapunzel whispers into Jack's ear, gaunt hands trailing down his chest, and Elsa thinks she hears something else, but Rapunzel lowers her tone, and Elsa pretends she's fixing up her brushes.

When Jack finally sits down, Elsa says hello and doesn't expect a reply. She's putting on foundation that is several shades darker than usual, because this time the concept is something like humid summer nights and flowing bejeweled parties.

Jack smells like vodka and something else. When Elsa shifts a little nearer to gauge the thickness of his eyeliner, she identifies it as vomit. Jack sways in his seat, whether from the alcohol or from puking out his food she isn't sure, and Elsa has to catch him several times before he faceplants into her tray of pink eye shadows.

"Are you okay to walk?" Elsa asks cautiously. She shouldn't even be speaking, let alone enquiring about his health. Jack has a temper that has left more than ten members of staff jobless, and Elsa isn't keen to be the subject of his latest tantrum.

"Are you stupid or something," Jack says, and he sounds as irritated as he usually does. "Of course I am."

Elsa is pushing her luck. "When was the last time you ate?"

Jack shrugs, jutting shoulders sharp enough to slice her cheek. "I ate earlier."

Elsa is well aware of the extra activities that almost all models engage in. Modelling is a solitary career, and it's dehumanizing in more ways than one. When Jack parts his lips, allowing Elsa to gloss them over, she can smell blood on his breath.

"You should be careful," Elsa says when she gives his face a final once-over, before nodding her approval. "When you're throwing up your guts as well as your food, that's probably a sign something's wrong."

Jack raises an eyebrow. "There's always something wrong with models," he says, a faint smirk edging up his lips. "That's why makeup artists are here, right? Hide all our imperfections and butter up the flaws and all that lovely shit that Bunnymund is always harping on about."

He pulls Elsa's closer, undernourished digits clasped upon her arm, so close that Elsa can count each individual eyelash, darkened with the mascara she'd just applied earlier. "See? Aren't I attractive?"

"You look like a doll," Elsa just says truthfully. Jack laughs, and if it were a compliment or an insult, he takes in all in stride.

"Great," Jack says, straightening up. "That's all I ever want to be."

"That's depressing," Elsa blurts out before she can filter her mouth.

Jack pauses and looks at her for a long time, and his gaze travels down to her nametag, letters scrawled messily on the sticker.

"Yeah, well," Jack says finally, as he draws in air again, "nobody ever said that I had to be happy to do my job, right, Elsa?"

* * *

Elsa doesn't keep track of time. How can she, when she's constantly on and off airplanes, and the stage lights are the only source of brightness she knows, and date lines and time zones change as quickly as the seconds tick away?

It's autumn in London, and Elsa finds herself in front of Jack for the first time in God knows how long, and Jack is staring at her with a self-satisfied grin on his face, exactly the same as before.

"Haven't seen you since Paris," Jack breathes, and this time he only smells like cigarette smoke. "What other figurines have you been prettifying?"

"Too many to count," Elsa says, and conversation falls between them easily, as if they'd just seen each other yesterday. "But you're definitely not the first one I've been prettifying in a while."

Snorting, Jack pops a mint into his mouth, sucking thoughtfully as he watches Elsa brush a dark line up his cheek through hooded eyes.

"Do you want to know what I did?" Jack asks, though Elsa knows he's going to tell her anyway, regardless if she wants to hear it or not.

"What?" She humours him, because she has a feeling no one really listens to him when he speaks.

Jack goes silent, toothpick fingers fiddling with his beige buttons. "Nothing, really," Jack says finally. "Can't remember. The details get a little lost between the sex and the alcohol."

"The model life, huh," Elsa mutters, picking up a large powder brush.

"I guess," Jack says, a little moodily. He cocks his head. "You have a boyfriend, Elsa?"

Startled, Elsa glances at him and takes a few seconds to answer. "Um, yeah," Elsa says hesitantly. "His name is Hans." A little lost, a little desperate to take the attention off herself, she says, "Do you have a girlfriend?"

"If you call Rapunzel a girlfriend," Jack says idly. "She's more the personification of the Devil, if you ask me."

"Then… why are you dating her?"

"I don't know," it seems to be his favourite phrase, "she's a good fuck?"

His statement tapers off at the ends, so it turns into more of a question than anything.

Elsa supposes it makes sense. Two models would surely interest each other, find solace in an understanding with their line of work that is so hard to picture with someone not in the fashion industry. But more than that, when Elsa looks at Jack and Rapunzel, she can't seem to see anything but silicon bodies and high-end clothes that are snipped and trimmed in ways that should be symbolic declarations, but are so obscure that they just end up being vaguely ridiculous shirts that only look good on the thin and glorious.

Pretty people belong together, after all.

After the London show ends, there's an after party that Jack drags Elsa along to even though she's quite sure she's not supposed to be here.

"I'm just a makeup artist," Elsa complains, feeling out of place in her black jeans and white button-down. "This is for the models and the–the designers and stuff."

"You should just…" Jack slurs, already drunk from the pre-drinks, "lighten up, Elsa. No one cares if you're a model or a fucking garbage collector. Just act like you belong here, and voila, you belong here."

But Elsa doesn't belong here, that's the thing. She sees Toothiana flutter up, long legs ruler straight, confident in her kilometric heels, a predatory smile that curves the crimson of her lips, and Elsa feels uncomfortable in her own skin.

Everyone is predatory, Elsa thinks, as she looks around. Everyone is just a cynical mess of betrayals and blank slates fit for makeup to define their personalities for the night, because to survive in an industry like this, back stabbings and lies are as common as the outrageous clothes that are found hanging from the racks backstage of a Prada show.

When Elsa watches Toothiana and Jack exchange pleasantries, she realises that Rapunzel isn't the only one. Perhaps Aurora as well, with her sharp eyes and cupcake smiles, sing song voice winding into his ear.

"All your fucks?" Elsa says conversationally, when Tiana floats away.

"Not Ariel," Jack answers just as casually. "Too fucking dedicated to that guy of hers. Can't remember his name. He's sort of airheaded and dumb looking."

"You mean Eric?" Elsa says skeptically. "He's one of the top supermodels around, how do you not know him?"

"Because _I'm_ the top supermodel," Jack says arrogantly. "That fuckwit doesn't even know how to differentiate between charmeuse and crêpe de Chin."

"You don't either," Elsa points out.

"Yeah, but at least people know that I don't try," Jack says dismissively. He peers at her, as if controlling his vision is the most difficult thing in the world. "Modelling is just an image, Elsa. We're selling beauty that's about as deep as a fucking piece of paper."

Elsa sips her champagne and says nothing.

"And whoever said that you don't need brains to be a model is a liar," Jack continues, and he's starting to droop as he stands. "Of course you need brains. Fuck, you need to figure out who to cozy up to and who to step on. You need to find out which one of these human coat hangers is your enemy, and who will help you rise to become the best. Modelling is about blood and flesh, Elsa, underneath all that shimmer and blush you like to use."

Lurching forwards, Jack half stumbles, half pushes himself to the balcony that overlooks the glitzy sea of lights that is two a.m. London. He kneels next to a potted plant and his chest heaves, and a second later he's vomiting up a sour mixture of gin and stomach acid. Elsa doesn't make a move to help him, just turns away and leans against the railing, lets the breeze kiss her hair.

Jack is still retching ten minutes later, and Elsa has a feeling that he's not puking just because of the alcohol anymore.

"Vomit up everything," Jack once said to her with a wry grin. "And when I say everything, I mean everything."

Jack has thrown up his day's worth of food, which can count as nothing because it's only been liquor and one mint and two celery sticks. And then comes the blood, and then comes the humanity.

"You're nothing when you're on the runway. You're just a skinny clay figure that's come to life, and you're breathing in hairspray and foundation, and breathing out Vogue and Armani laced with cigarette smoke and sleeping pills," Elsa recalls Sandy saying, as the photographer had switched from one lens to another.

"You okay?" Elsa asks, when Jack is wiping his mouth and gurgling down a glass of brandy he'd snagged off a passing waiter.

"Yeah," Jack says, checking his reflection in the glass windows. There's nothing to check. Jack doesn't change because there's nothing to change. Jack is a doll, and dolls are always perfect, even after they've been throwing up their intestines and the linings of their stomach. "I usually do that in the bathrooms though, but hey, the pot plant was here and the bathroom was too far away. Sorry about that; I didn't mean to show you such an uncouth sight."

Jack laughs at the irony, eyes twinkling. But Elsa doesn't know anymore, doesn't know whether that twinkle is from happiness or from the glitter eye shadow she'd used on him earlier. But because this is Jack, it's probably neither. That twinkle is probably just a catch of the light that's bounced off the plastic of his retinas.

Elsa leaves an hour later, when Jack is all over Rapunzel in the corner of the room, and she feels loneliness eating up her insides painfully, in a way she imagines food does to Jack.

* * *

Jack kisses Elsa when they're in Los Angeles and they're just about to fly to Milan. Elsa stills, concealer brush rigid in her hand, while around them activity is hurried almost to the point of panic, and no one bats an eye at this sight.

Elsa doesn't say anything when Jack pulls away, and continues to apply makeup to the blemishes on his skin. It almost shocked her, really, the first time Jack came up to her with a pimple on his forehead. It was stupid, but Elsa had unconsciously assumed that Jack, as artificial as he is, would be as flawless as any photo-shopped poster for Chanel that's plastered across Times Square.

When they reach Milan, after a flight of calm conversation and minimal contact, they fall into bed together and Elsa has no time to think, no time to wonder if this is a good idea. But she supposes that it's better this way, because if she does have time to think, she'll start getting second thoughts about falling in love with a mannequin.

* * *

Elsa breaks up with Hans four days later over a phone call and a static mumble of "I don't think we're working out."

Jack listens to her when she says this, and when she hangs up, his gaze meets hers, and he says, "That was a pretty dumb move on your part."

"I know," Elsa says. Unlike Jack, she knows.

She's going to regret this later. She isn't even sure if Jack is worth this, is worth all the pain she will live through when this is over.

"We're not going to be permanent," Jack warns, as though saying it out loud will convince her otherwise.

"I know."

* * *

This time it's Tokyo, and Jack's face is powdered almost pure white, to make way for the smoldering shadows of his eyes and lips lined in ruby and scarlet.

It's something for Japanese culture and history, a mix of classical Asian makeup and contemporary finesse. Elsa just goes with however she feels, and in the end, while the director gives her flurried praises before pushing Jack to his place in line, Elsa studies her work, and thinks that Jack looks a little like a demon.

Later, when Jack is stalking down the runway, sharp turns and set jaw, with the fiery demon makeup setting his features ablaze, Elsa wonders if anyone notices the way his ankles look just about ready to snap, or the concave hollow of his stomach through the mesh of his shirt, or how his cheeks are so sunken that they look like they've been carved out with a spoon.

Probably not. After all, when someone as dazzling as Jackson Frost comes on to walk, the focus is on the bones and the angles and the way the clothes hang like sculptured perfection on the contours of his body. And truthfully, there's nothing else to look at. Someone as dazzling as Jackson Frost is dazzling because he's not human, just a measured model of sky-high standards and two sticks of celery.

* * *

They're huddled together in the blankets of a first-class hotel, because Jack doesn't like anything but the best. Their bodies are sticky, but Jack still burrows himself deeper by her side, presses his nose into the crook of her neck.

"What do you do in your free time?" Elsa asks. She's curious about his answer, because she realises that she doesn't know Jack, doesn't know anything about his previous twenty-five years of living, only that he comes from Burgess and he hasn't been back to see his mother in over four years. She only knows the model Jackson Frost, knows that any makeup she applies on him looks good, knows that he's one of the most sought-after contracts right now, knows that he eats nothing but envy and drinks only suffering.

(Sometimes, Elsa forgets that he is human, too.)

"I don't know," Jack says. He never knows. "I like winter?"

"Why?"

"Last name, I guess. Nothing else."

It's not an answer; it's not anything.

But it's fitting, Elsa thinks dryly. Of all the seasons, Jack chooses the one that signifies death.

"How was your childhood?"

"I don't know. Normal."

"Siblings?"

"Little sister."

"Pets?"

"None."

Elsa sighs into her pillow. Perhaps Jack is made of plastic after all.

* * *

In a little break between one show and another, Elsa and Jack end up somewhere in North America, in the middle of rushing streets and thousands of bodies. Elsa doesn't know which city, because in her line of work, all the skyscrapers and the catwalks just blend together after a while.

Jack takes her to a café, and he looks agonizingly out of place in the ringlets of coffee beans and hums of conversation that gathers around the throat. Here, Jack is nothing but a frightfully thin man who doesn't know how to smile properly or enjoy the slice of cream cake that's placed in front of him, and Elsa watches him stare at the strawberries decorating the treat for at least five minutes (or maybe it's five hours. Time flows strangely when the time zone stays constant for more than forty-eight hours).

"You put it in your mouth," Elsa says bluntly. "Or have you forgotten how to do that."

Jack jumps, eyes wide like dinner plates.

"I don't–"

"Please?" Elsa says softly. "Just one bite."

Slowly, Jack lifts a piece to his lips, and as he's chewing gently, his shoulders relax.

"It's good," Jack says, almost inaudibly. Elsa is so surprised she stops eating her own cake, and she feels relief erupt like blossoms in her chest.

Jack finishes the whole thing, and when it gets dark and they're still sitting there, in the wooden booths and stirring three different lattes, he excuses himself to go to the bathroom.

And Elsa knows that Jack will be kneeling on unforgiving tiles and vomiting out his humanity again, and she realises that she feels nothing, now, and she doesn't know why.

* * *

Berlin Autumn-Winter Fashion Week is black and white, loud statements with bold silver accessories and a minimalistic flair. Elsa highly doubts this description, because when is fashion ever minimalistic?

The makeup this time is subtler than she's used to, though. Jack is sitting in his usual place in front of her, eyes closed to the world while she paints his skin with a thin sheen of shimmering grey.

He ends up looking robotic, and Elsa thinks that this might even be his true form. When he walks this time, his face is stiffer than usual, and when he stops to pose at the end of the runway, he turns mechanically and keeps his eyes above the heads of the spectators.

"Do you sleep at night?" Elsa asks him when she's removing his makeup, and they're one of the last few stragglers left behind backstage.

Jack blinks at her heavily. "Nah," he says. "I haven't slept in, like, a year."

Somehow, Elsa doesn't doubt this. She reads him like she might a book, sees the slump of his shoulders and notices how fatigue swathes around him like a second skin. Even when they'd slept together, Elsa would awaken to see Jack staring glassy eyed up at the ceiling, slowly twirling a pill between his stick fingers.

"Why should I sleep?" Jack murmurs. "It's too hard. Time isn't constant, you know, and one day I'm somewhere in Asia and the next I'm sitting down in some European bar in the middle of nowhere and it's been daylight for more than twenty-four hours."

The bags under his eyes contrast so heavily against the white of his skin that if Elsa didn't know any better, she'd think it was part his makeup for a Louis Vuitton Spring Collection walk.

Jack sighs, and it's brittle and delicate, as if anything stronger would tear apart his lungs. Maybe it would.

"Kiss me," Jack whispers, and she does.

* * *

On the day Elsa's life topples, everything ends with a shrill ring of her phone, and Elsa ignores it in favour of painting Toothiana's eyelids iridescent green and blue.

Feathers, Elsa recalls the director saying. It's wonder, enchantment, and light. Today's show is all about the mythical and the magical. Gossamer dresses and flowing silks, bright suits and even brighter makeup.

The second time it rings, Toothiana is finished, and Elsa picks it up between dusty hands and hurried flesh. And then it takes her several "What?!"s to make sense of the words, when Tiana is slapping her manager across the face behind her, and Aurora is stuck screaming at Jasmine, who's screaming back.

"Something wrong?" Jack asks when he slides into his seat, waiting expectedly at her to begin. Instead, the phone slips from her fingers, clatters onto the ground, and Elsa is sucking in air too fast because the world has started to spin and there are black spots in her vision.

Elsa's teeth have locked together, and her heart is pounding much too loudly in her chest.

"Elsa!"

Jack is steadying her, and an intern has stopped by to lower her into a chair. Elsa looks around wildly, until Jack holds her face gently between his palms and says, "Hey, hey, it's okay. Just breathe, okay, breathe."

"My sister," Elsa chokes out, "accident. Car accident."

She shudders out a sob, and Jack holds her close. "It's okay, it's okay, just breathe."

They're in Italy doing a show for Dolce & Gabbana, and Elsa can't leave until it's finished.

She takes the rest of the day off, settling into a couch backstage, and when she blindly watches the models walk, she notices, perhaps in an attempt to distract herself, that whoever did Jack's makeup never really managed to bring out the stone-cold depths of his eyes in the glimmering oranges and reds.

Three o'clock in the morning, and Elsa is rigid with fear. One million phone calls, to talk to her mother and her father, to burst into tears when Anna's creaky voice drifts through the receiver and assures her sister that yes, I'm alright and please don't cry, Elsa, I'm fine.

Jack looks at her, eyes dark with an emotion she can't place. When she hangs up for the final time, he's playing carelessly with a wine glass, sloshing the deep liquid inside without taking a sip.

"It must be nice," Jack says, "to be able to call someone."

"What?" Elsa snaps, not in the mood for his vague statements today.

"No, think about it," Jack says calmly. "You have someone waiting on the other end for you. When you've done your job, you have a family back home. Me? I don't have a home. I live in the show. Outside of that, I'm just a beggar with nowhere to go."

"You make more than my entire year's worth of salary with one show," Elsa says, irritated.

"Yeah, I'm a beggar, see?"

Elsa doesn't understand his logic.

"Are you trying to be poetic or something?" Elsa says. "What are you begging for? Love? Happiness?"

"Oh, God no," Jack wrinkles his nose. "Love is overrated, happiness even more so." He glances up at her with a deranged grin. "I don't know what I'm begging for, but I'm begging for something."

(I don't know, I don't know.)

"You never know," Elsa says softly. She turns away. "Can I not get a straight answer out of you? Is there anything about you that's _you_?"

Jack pretends to think. "Well, I'm an insomniac. I'm an alcoholic. Mints are disgusting, but I still eat them, and my main source of food is celery sticks." He flashes her a crooked smile. "Sounds like the celebrity life, eh?"

And when Elsa lists off her traits ("I have a younger sister. I'm a makeup artist. I have one ex-boyfriend. I think Burberry is horrendous and Jimmy Choo is passable. My favourite food is chocolate") she begins to wonder just when she became so two-dimensional.

"Yeah, see?" Jack snorts. "You call me plastic, but look at yourself. Those are standard text-book answers to life, Elsa. There's no 'real' and 'fake' here. Everything that has depth might be as transparent as glass somewhere else. And let's be honest here, you're the makeup artist, right? Who's the one sealing away the mistakes and the flaws to the world, huh? Who's the one presenting an immaculate image to the seething masses? You are, not me. I'm just the doll, you're the creator."

Jack rocks to his feet, cracks his neck, picks up his jacket and his phone.

"I gotta go," Jack says without looking at her. "I'm off to Hong Kong for a show. Don't miss me too much."

And then he's gone, faster than she can say goodbye.

* * *

Elsa doesn't see Jack for nearly three months. She returns to Norway and takes care of Anna for four weeks, and even when Anna insists that she can manage on her own, Elsa dithers and finds excuses to stay.

"So have you met anyone on your travels?" Anna asks, maybe a little too eagerly, when they pause under the shade of a tree and Elsa locks the brakes on her wheelchair. "Come on, Elsa. I heard you broke up with Hans. Why? He was a nice guy."

"We just… weren't working out," Elsa says evasively, echoing her words from more than half a year previously.

"How about any models?" Anna winks. "They're hot, Elsa, I've seen some of them walk and I know that their makeup has been done by you. You're like, the best artist in the world. I could recognise your style anywhere."

"Oh, really?" Elsa says playfully. "Then tell me, which models do I paint?"

"Um…" Anna screws up her face. "I think… Rapunzel Corona, the woman who always walks first in the Vera Wang shows. She looks like a bitch, Elsa."

"Yeah, that's one," Elsa grins. "Who else?"

"Uh, Toothiana… something. I forgot her last name," Anna says.

"Yeah, that's another," Elsa concedes.

"Oh man, they're like supermodels," Anna groans. "You're so lucky you get to be near them." Her face brightens. "And you _always_ paint that guy's face. Jackson Frost! He's so good-looking, Elsa, how do you not swoon?"

Because when I look at him all I see are the bones that jut out of his face like knives, Elsa thinks. But she says, "Haha, yeah, Jack."

"First name basis?" Anna squeals. "Do you think you can get his autograph for me?"

"Sure," Elsa says easily.

"What's he like?" Anna asks, clapping her hands together, green eyes glowing and more beautiful than any model Elsa's ever seen.

He drinks more alcohol than he eats, and when he does consume something solid, it usually ends up in the toilet basin an hour later, Elsa thinks. He doesn't sleep at night and has, on more than one occasion, come close to overdosing on sleeping pills. He's a skeleton with lungs and nothing more. He doesn't even have a heart. I don't know what he's thinking when he's coughing up blood, but he tells me that this is the life he's chosen. I'm in love with him, but I think I just love a man made of silicon.

"He's a gentleman," Elsa says, smiling. "He's great with fans."

* * *

The thing about loving Jack is that Elsa is always flailing in the unknown. She returns to work after three months, and she's greeting other models and hugging staff members who have missed her, and she's finally picking up the brushes that she hasn't used in too long.

"You're back," Rapunzel says shortly, giving her a cutting smile. Elsa hums and begins applying the base. "Jack's missed you."

Her hand slips, and Rapunzel ends up with a puff of foundation in the middle of her face. The woman doesn't move, only stares at Elsa with raised eyebrows.

"I'm so sorry," Elsa says hastily, trying to even out the texture. She tries to focus on her job, and thankfully Rapunzel doesn't say anything else.

Before she leaves, though, Rapunzel says, "He should be coming soon. I predict in the next five minutes, after he's done puking out the rum he's been downing since six this morning. Some things never change."

Rapunzel sweeps away, and sure enough, Jack appears in the doorway three minutes later.

"Oh," is all Jack says. He sits down. "My favourite makeup artist has returned."

Jack is walking for Marc Jacobs today, all glitzed up for the New York 1920s glamour and fun. Pale gold and pearls, white feathery headdresses and dark cheeks; Elsa makes sure to accentuate Jack's blue eyes with a touch of burnished white.

When Jack looks at his reflection, his lips, fading to gleaming silver, curve upwards, and he says, "Now I haven't looked this perfect in three months. Welcome back, Elsa."

And then he stands and kisses her cleanly, and Elsa is too shocked to pull away. Jack ruins his makeup, but he just grins at her and says, "This is part of the look."

Afterwards, Elsa plans to head back to an apartment she has in New York, to sleep a little before the second day of the show. Just as she's packing up her materials, Jack appears by her side, fingers gripping her elbow.

"Hey," he breathes. He's wiped off his stage makeup, and he looks almost normal in an oversized blue hoodie and jeans.

"Jack," Elsa says. She swallows. "Jack, I need to talk to you."

"Okay."

Elsa takes a deep breath. Looks away and looks back again. "Listen, it's been fun. But I don't want this anymore."

"What do you want?"

She bites her lips, avoids Jack's intense gaze. "I want a real relationship. It's… too hard dating you. You're nothing, Jack. You're a model, and that's it." She meets his eyes, asks the question that's been hovering at her lips since the day they met. "Are you even human, Jack? Do you even know what love is? Is there anything else you comprehend other than the inside of a toilet and the taste of vodka?"

Jack steps backwards, suddenly very, very small. It's silent, then:

"One chance," Jack says quietly. "Give me one last chance. It's been three months, Elsa. Things change."

Elsa frowns, but doesn't answer.

* * *

The season is coming to a close, and backstage of the Calvin Klein Spring show, Jackson Frost, top model and first to walk, has gone missing right before his fitting.

Elsa has a feeling she knows where he is, and drops her brushes after finishing Jasmine's face.

"Five minutes," she murmurs to the director, and he nods. Elsa heads outside to the parking lot, spots a figure hunched in the front seat of a cherry red convertible. His fluff of white hair makes him easily visible, and Elsa makes her way over to him, curious as to what he is doing.

"Jack?" Elsa says, peering through the open window.

Jack turns around, and Elsa is startled to see a slice of greasy pizza clamped between his lips.

"Oh, hey Elsa," he says, words muffled as he speaks through the food.

"You're… eating?" Elsa says blankly.

Jack shrugs, shoving the rest of the pizza into his mouth and chewing noisily. "Yeah," he mutters after swallowing. "Everyone likes pizza."

Elsa is speechless, and she just ends up staring at him. She finally notices that his cheeks aren't as hollow, and his eye bags aren't as purple. There's some strength in him when he walks now, and his wrists aren't chopstick thin.

"You're… you're not going to throw it up later?" Elsa asks, hardly daring to believe it.

Jack shrugs, and Elsa realises that yes, maybe he will throw it up later. Maybe he will sneak off to the bathroom and shove two fingers down his throat. But more importantly, this is a step, and right now, that is all she's asked for.

"You… you want some?" Jack asks, almost shyly, and he offers her the pizza box, two slices already eaten. It's sure to make a mess in the convertible, probably worth more than Elsa's career, but Jack is licking his fingers, and he's suddenly so timid that Elsa feels something melt in her chest.

"Sure," Elsa says, and she walks over to the other side, opens the door, and sits down next to him.

Jack smiles at her, genuinely this time, and it's so beautiful that Elsa feels she might cry.

"Thank you."

* * *

author's note:

so this came about bc i was avoiding the next chapter of _two hours _and part 2 of _paperclips _even though they're both halfway there. and… uh… i was craving a model!au._  
_

i'm also very sure there are millions of typos in the text and i'm so sorry for that; i did proof-read but i'm not good at picking up on these things until it's actually published otl.

and yeah, this is the fic and i hope it wasn't too out of this world for you. but hey, no one died, and there was a happy ending too ;) thanks for reading!


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